Due Time
by Punkin09
Summary: What with the vampires and the newly acquired colt, they hadn't really had time to inform their dad of Sam's psychic 'tendencies.' When John finds out during a dangerous situation, his reaction may very well destroy his son. Hurt Sam, Protective Dean
1. Chapter 1

**I've had writer's block for so long that I'm shocking myself with how easy my writing is coming lately! This plot bunny struck me at the same time as Hands and Feet did, but I decided to do that one first to give this one more time to stew. Since I had such a great time doing Sam's first person POV last fic, I decided to try Dean on for a size this time around! This should be about three parts, set in season one after Dead Man's Blood but before the events in Salvation. Yay for John! (except he's not very likable for a good portion of this story. Bear with me? *shy smile*) Thank you, wonderful readers! **

**-Punkin**

"_**Their foot shall slide in due time…" -Deuteronomy 32:35**_

Part One:

I was so relieved, so god damn _thankful_, that they weren't at each other's throats for once that I let my guard down. It's been a rough few days after all, what with sorting out the vampire nest (I still can't believe that they actually exist, by the way), coming together as a family again, and confirming the legend of the colt.

It boggles my mind, the fact that this ONE gun can kill anything supernatural. Dad reckons that if he were to exist, it could perhaps kill the devil himself. I at least got a good chuckle out of that one, despite the glare he sent my way before smiling right along with me. Sure, Dad's a hard ass, but he just loves to make me laugh. Too bad he can't be that way with Sammy. I never could and never will understand that sharp edge our father takes when addressing Sam, the stiffness in him, the weariness in his gaze. Thinking on it now, it is almost as if he has a difficult time being for my little brother what he already easily is for me: a pillar to lean on, a companion.

I'll never know why exactly. It pulls at my gut to see them argue, to see them throw insults and slam doors, to see them each give me apologetic smiles in the aftermath while I support each of their residual anger and resentment towards one another. I'm used to the role of mediator of course, but have never been, nor will ever be, ok with the reality that there's really nothing I can do to mend their rifts.

But, at last, everything is ok for once. No one is fighting, no one is angry. Or at least it had seemed that way only hours before now. You can't blame me for what happened, you see. Me and Sammy, we've been dealing with non-stop shit all by our lonesome for practically the entire year. The list is long: Jessica, our MIA father, _visions_, oh, and let's not forget all the ghoulies and ghosties and long legged beasties. So it is _totally_, _completely_, _undeniably_ not my fault that I didn't leap to inform Dad of Sam's psychic whatever the second we finally got some peace and quiet.

We'd been tired, ok. And I wasn't sure when or how exactly it happened, but Sammy and Dad? Well, unbelievably, they appeared to be on even ground for once! You don't know how much of a miracle that is. So yeah, I'd wanted that to last for a bit, I'd wanted to take a breather, I'd wanted to sit down, have a beer, and catch a few Z's before stirring the god damn waters by presenting Dad with a situation in which his reaction couldn't be predicted.

I know how much Sam's been dreading telling him. He's been so open with me, so vulnerable, about this sudden onslaught of power, but I know there is still a lot he keeps inside. I see the fear in his eyes, the raw insecurity, all piled on top of the freaking _self hate._ Can you believe that? Sam, who wears his heart on his sleeve and shares it with everyone and their _dog_, Sam, who doesn't have a bad bone in his whole freaking body, Sam, who feels guilty when _I _use his computer for... 'certain' things, thinks he's something to be hated? It pains me, beyond reason, that my little brother doubts himself so much, doubts his own _goodness._ He doesn't see in the mirror what I see when I look at him, he doesn't see just how impossible it is for him to be anything but kind, or caring, or generous. No matter what I've said in the past out of anger.

Sometimes, I wish I had the ability, and the courage, to just plain tell him this. I never quite get the right words out. I know when the time comes I'll be able to though, because I'll be damned if I can't protect him, even from his own mind. I think that's another reason this caught me so off guard, because while I was mentally prepared for the 'little brother self loathing' reaction after informing Dad of his mysterious visions, I most certainly WAS NOT prepared for our father not to be backing me up, or, for that matter, not to be present _at all._

My thoughts are the most violent right now towards Dad than they've ever been before in my entire life, worse than the epic Stanford fight, worse than the time Sammy broke his leg on a hunt years ago and the bastard had freaking _yelled_ at him. These memories fuel my fury even more. It blinds me, drenches my vision in red and sets a ringing inside my ears.

I want to punch something…anything. I want to hear it as something breaks by my own hands, as something shatters and proves that I do, in fact, have an influence, that I do, in fact, have some semblance of control.

Because it never god damn feels that way.

_Spinning_…my life's been spinning for twenty two years.

And it's only getting faster.

"Dean…" the gentle murmur pulls me, so rapid it's incredible, head first from my rage and back to the here and now. I look down at my fingers, at the nails digging into Sam's wan arm due to my relentless grip, at the wide, hazel eyes shining with concern, at the vivid bruises scattered and pronounced on his bare chest. I release my hold on him immediately, pulling away as if I might impart some terrible disease.

Sam and Dad had gone to grab us some late dinner earlier. It'd been my innocent suggestion, I'd been hoping they'd bond more, talk a bit, you know, father and son style. I was shamelessly happy to be together again, to be a family again. I should have insisted I go with them; actually, I shouldn't have opened my fat mouth to begin with. Still…not my fault! How was I supposed to know they'd get jumped by the neighborhood thugs? How was I supposed to know Sam's little 'telekinesis' stint hadn't been a onetime deal after all, and that he'd 'mind fuck' the gun from the attacker's hands moments before it could blow Dad's brains out? How was I supposed to know?

Damn it all. Damn the whole situation, damn Dad and his inability to stick around long enough to be what we need him to be and damn _me_ for expecting him to do it this time. I'd gotten that one beer, you know. I had been taking the last, delicious, joyous sip right before there'd been a soft rap on the motel room door, which didn't make sense at the time because Dad had brought a key along with them.

Groaning, but amused, I'd dragged myself from the chair and pulled the door open, "What? Lose the god damn key already, old man?" I'd been grinning, still buzzing with the bliss of it just being the three of us once more.

It hadn't been Dad, though, and turns out I got there just in time to catch an armful of collapsing little brother.

"Whoa, whoa, Sammy? Sam? Hey, come on, are you hurt? What happened? _Sam_! Hey, what's going on? Where's Dad?"

I remember there'd been a moment, after I'd managed to practically carry Sam to the closest bed, in which he'd weakly shook his head and I'd been downright terrified. My hands had been searching for injury, trying to figure out what was wrong, all the while questioning my little brother frantically. I'd stopped, ignoring the gasp of pain elicited when I'd unintentionally pressed against Sammy's ribs when my fingers curled roughly in his shirt. "Where's Dad, Sam?" My voice had been like nails, grinding and unforgiving.

Sam had blinked up at me, mouth hanging open slightly as if he were searching for what to say or maybe just too scared to say it. I'd shaken him then, not thinking very clearly, "Where is he? What happened, god damn it, _tell me_!"

Tears had filled Sam's giant, doleful eyes, his arms limp at his sides and not attempting to push me or my painful hold away. "I-I don't know."  
>"What do you mean you don't fucking know?"<p>

Sam half choked, a garbled sob catching in his throat. That's when I realized what I'd been doing and I'd at once released him, appalled. "He-he left…I-I don't know where."

My mind had become much more amenable to reason then, and as I began to shush my brother and calm him, I didn't much like the scenario playing out inside my head. Turned out, everything _had _been going great, until they'd taken a short cut through the back alley on the way to the motel. Sam had trembled slightly throughout the entire story he told, as if he were about to explode with sheer emotion. Three men had attacked them, caught them off guard and knocked them around a bit. Sam had been down for the count, but Dad had broken one guy's nose and was about to break the third man's as well when he surprisingly had pulled out a pistol.

It wasn't anything we hadn't dealt with before: gun wielding maniac had demanded money; Dad called his bluff and said 'go screw yourself'. But I guess our genius father is losing the ability to be a decent judge of character because the safety had promptly been switched off, and from his position on the ground Sam had seen the now very pissed off man's index finger twitch towards the trigger. "I yelled out, told him to stop. And…and it was just like when I moved that cabinet, Dean…"

He hadn't looked at me then, instead he'd been staring down at the bed sheets, expression one of utter shame. "What…what do you mean?" I'd known what he meant, of course. More than anything.

Sam had bitten his bottom lip, quivering, "The gun just-just _flew_ from his hands, Dean. Right when it went off. It just…flew out of his hands! Just like that! I don't know how I did it." He'd finally met my eyes, expression heartbreakingly vulnerable and hazel orbs begging, _pleading_. I'm not sure what for. It's like he thought he'd done something terribly wrong. "I couldn't control it! I-I swear! He was…he was going to shoot, and I couldn't do anything else!"

I'd gathered him up into my arms then, not sure what else to do to comfort my little brother. I'd tried to quiet him, tried to get him to calm down and tell me where he was hurt before continuing. My attempts proved useless. "Dad…he looked at me like…like I was a freak, Dean. Like I was a different person." Sam whispered from where he'd buried his face into my shoulder, like he was trying to burrow himself a safe place to hide. My arms had tightened unconsciously around him, hands rubbing circles on his back. "I tried to explain, tried to tell him about…all that's happened, about the v-visions." Sam had sniffed, turning his face slightly to glance up at mine while gently shaking his head, "He pulled away when…when I tried to touch him. He just…just _glared_ at me." His eyes lids had fluttered closed, "and then he…he just…just _walked away_, Dean! He just left! Didn't say a word."

"Listen to me, Sammy." I'd hushed. I needed to take care of him. He couldn't stand on his own two fucking feet and was virtual putty in my arms. Big brother alarms were going hay wire. "It's going to be all right, ok? We're going to figure this out, kiddo, I promise. But first, I need you to tell me where you're hurt."

Sam had swallowed, bangs blocking my view of his eyes. I'd desperately wanted to sweep them out of the way, but had managed to resist the beguiling urge. After all, I'd already _beyond_ filled the chick flick quota for the entire year, probably the century. "Uh…just-just my ribs. Think a few might be broken. And," Sam had paused, as if reluctant to admit, "a migraine." We both knew what it was from. I remained tactfully silent on its apparent origins though.

I recognized the downplaying of an injury, of course, right off the bat. At least he'd been honest, because it _so_ wasn't the time to be bull shitting me about his health. I'd had to cut away his shirt, the fantastic bruising revealed underneath leaving me breathless and furious all over again. Three ribs broken, two cracked.

It had to be agonizing.

I'd kept up a steady rhythm of words, reassurances, and just kept on talking to Sam, making sure he stayed awake even though I'd already ruled out the possibility of a concussion. I just _needed_ him to be awake.

For me.

When I'd finished wrapping Sammy's rib cage, hands lingering on his lax arm, he'd whispered, so quiet I nearly didn't hear, "Dad hates me."

And that's when I'd temporarily lost it. Because who am I kidding? This is all my fault.

_TBC…_

**I've always loved stories about John reacting badly to Sammy's psychic gifts, and many writing legends on this site have mastered it. Write what you love, eh? ;) Review? Hugs!**


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm so happy! There's a new comment fic meme over at OhSam! :D I live for those things! Any who, here's chapter two! Thank you SO SO much you kind reviewers. The response to chapter one was so heartwarming, it really inspired me! It means a lot, truly. You guys are awesome! Dean's anger was so fun to write for this part :) I hope you like it! Happy reading!**

** -Punkin**

"_**Their foot shall slide in due time…" Deuteronomy 32:35 **_

Part 2:

All that hard work…poof! All those reassurances, all the time spent building Sammy up…gone, destroyed! In a single night, all because of a single act. I'm beginning to agree with my little brother in that these so called gifts of his are more of a curse. Not because of the crippling physical repercussions, no, because of the psychological warfare he's been enduring for the entire year.

I can't stand to see him like this anymore. To see him reduced to a mere shadow of who he really is.

It's really starting to piss me off. Because how can I make this better? How can I make him believe that yes, he's different, but that doesn't mean he's _different?_

"Dean…" Sam murmurs another time, voice meek and tinged with thinly veiled uncertainty. Something lodges in my throat. He shouldn't sound that way when he's talking to me. He shouldn't sound so…so _scared_. It's like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Yep, all that work is definitely far, far gone. I wish to be able to just wave my hand and make everything go away, if only for a little while. Just so it can be me and Sammy, and no one else. No stupid demon hunt, no over bearing father, no psychic mind shit. Just us. Everything would be so simple if it were just us.

I scare myself when I think of all the things I'd be willing to do for Sam, and then am even more scared when I find that there are less and less of these things that are doable at all. It's a cold hard truth, but the fact is, I'm fast becoming useless. It's not a good feeling. Actually, it completely sucks.

"You listen to _me_, Sam." I'm putting an end to this crap. _Right now._

He's staring wide eyed in blatant sorrow up at me, looking for all the world like the four year old who used to insist on lucky charms three times a day, like the toddler whose first word was 'De', like the scared twelve year old who'd climb into my bed after a nightmare, like the sixteen year old who'd jokingly said he'd never out grow me, like the kid I'd pulled from a fire, not once, but twice, and like the little brother who'd always been more 'big' than 'little', especially in the size of his heart.

I earnestly seek his gaze when leaning forward to hover centimeters from the tip of his nose; he quickly looks down and away. I'm having none of it though, and immediately palm the sides of his cheeks, cupping his face in my hands and gently forcing his eyes to meet my own. Surprisingly, Sam doesn't pull away, instead weakly continuing to stare hopelessly back at me, dark eyes shining amidst the dim lighting creeping through the cracks in the curtains.

I recognize it now. The soundless and familiar pleading within the swirling hazel, the silent beg of _'make it better, Dean.'_ Because he's never had to ask, and god damn it, he won't ever have to start either, not while I'm still kicking. Nonetheless, the levee has been broken, and the flood waters are anything if not massive. Maybe, just maybe, I can be enough to keep us afloat.

My thumbs are resting lightly on the near constant purple bruising underneath Sam's eye lashes. My baby brother: the freaking poster child for a good night's rest. I search his gaze, hoping to latch onto that part within Sammy that isn't so blinded by self doubt and still loyally heeds big brother's words. "Dad _does not_ hate you. He has _never_ hated you. You hear me? He may have trouble showing it, but Dad _loves you_, more than anything. You understand me?"

Sam's lip trembles slightly. If I weren't so close, I probably wouldn't have noticed. His jaw clenches against my fingers, pupils narrowing defiantly, "Yes he does, Dean. You didn't see it...you didn't see the look in his eyes. He's _always_ resented me, for not wanting to hunt, for wanting to have my own life, for questioning his authority. It's just now not only am I the 'freak son', I'm the 'freak son' with supernatural abilities." The venom in these words staggers me and I desperately want to protest, I want to reach into my little brother's head and shoot all these thoughts before they can come out of his mouth ever again.

I'm at a complete loss. Silence falls for a few instances; Sam's wheezing breaths filling my ears. He's getting himself worked up; in the back of my mind I know that's a bad thing. He needs to rest. Hell, we both do. Sam blinks, something flashing and rippling across his face, like an unbidden, but shocking, thought. "Dean," Sam gasps out, all bitterness gone, "You don't….I mean, you don't think…Dad wouldn't…he wouldn't _hurt _me." It comes out as a half question, a pitiful mixture of denial and belief. Yet, something breaks deep inside me.

I take it back. The flood waters aren't massive, their damn near catastrophic. I feel like I'm drowning already.

When I try to speak, the words catch and I can only splutter for a brief second. Shaking my head, my hands move from Sam's face, neck, and shoulders and back over again, not sure where to hold him but trying to do so all the same. "Sammy…" At my apparent loss of articulation, Sam's eyes close and I know I've lost him. He's pulling away now, curling into the bed and placing a protective arm over his bandaged chest.

I want him to sleep, to rest, to have happier dreams, but damn it, how will that help anything at this point? I follow his movements, at last giving in to the irresistible urge to sweep his bangs away from his sickly skin. "Dad would never hurt you," I whisper, fingers hovering on the back of his neck, "and I promise, he doesn't hate you, kiddo. He just needs time, that's all. He'll come around…you'll see." I hope my words carry a hell of a lot more conviction that I'm feeling.

I sit there for a very long time, even though it doesn't seem that way, leaning over Sam as he sleeps. "You'll see." I add quietly. But I'm waiting just as much as Sam is, because I'm putting a lot of trust in Dad right now, and if he lets me down, if he makes one more wrong move here, then he can kiss this family goodbye.

Enough is fucking enough. Staring down at Sam, I've never been more certain of anything.

I remain poised, vigilant. That is why I am on my feet so fast the absolute second I hear someone at the motel room door. Pulling the gun from my waist band, I turn to face the entry way, leaving a few open feet in front of me.

The door is gently, hesitantly pushed open. Yeah, that's right Dad, you _should_ be wary, you bastard. After all that happened, he's just going to waltz back in here? It becomes extremely difficult to reign in my fury then, the thought of awaking Sammy the only thing keeping me from downright leaping on our father.

"Howdy, Dad." I sneer, maneuvering myself protectively in front of my little brother.

Dad stops, hands rising in a placating manner, eyes darting from my face to the figure huddled on the bed behind me. I immediately move to block his view.

He swallows, appearing very old and very, _very_ tired all of a sudden. He's run himself ragged chasing after this demon, too bad I'm not feeling very sympathetic at the moment. "Dean…"

I raise the gun as he moves to take an apparent step into the room and cross the salt line we have placed out. He halts in his tracks, eye brows furrowed. "You take one step inside this room and I swear I will shoot."

Dad remains frozen, eyeing my gun and obviously not sure what to do. The confusion that flickers in his gaze pisses me off even more. "What? Not fun being treated like you're less than human?"

Ah…so now he understands! I glare as he looks guiltily away from me and down at his toes. "Ok, I get it. Listen, Dean…"

I'm moving forward before I can even think, "No you listen for once, Dad!" The gun is still in my hands, we're both very much aware, "Sammy thinks you hate him, like, really, truly hates him! Do you have any idea what you've done? _Do you?"_

His mouth is open, like a fish, hands remaining hovering in the air, yet an infuriating defiance is in his eyes. After all, John Winchester is _never_ wrong, right? "You watch your…"

I cut him off once more, "Keep your voice down," I hiss, pushing outside and softly closing the door behind me. Dad bristles, his anger simmering just barely below the surface.

I can honestly care less. "You have ten minutes to convince me not to take Sammy and leave you here on your _ass_. _Ten minutes_, so you best start talking." I wave the hand gun in front of his face, though the evident danger and deadly promise in my words make it unnecessary.

The anger seems to seep out of Dad all at once, his face rapidly paling, "I screwed up, I know. I just…I needed time, Dean. I couldn't handle it. Seeing Sam….seeing him _move_ that gun, it was…it shocked me, is all. I had to get away, had to clear my head a bit."

"Clear you head?" Ok…so there goes the self promise not to yell. "What the fuck, Dad?"

His face reddens. I've never spoken to him this way. "Dean, I'm sure Sam knows I don't hate him. That's ridiculous…"

"Is it?" I'm pushing at his chest now, forcing him to take a step back, "What else is he supposed to think when his own father doesn't say a word to him, not one word, after discovering he has psychic abilities? What other conclusion could he draw from that? Huh, Dad? _Tell me!"_

Dad pushes my hands away. Good, now he's just as livid as I am. Bring it on. "Don't you talk to me that way, boy! You have no right to judge me! I find out Sammy has some sort of demonic power and I'm expected to just take it in stride?"

I'm about to punch the man. I really, truly am. But what stops us both mid screaming match is the soft gasp that comes from behind us.

When I look, it's to discover Sam's hunched, injured figure, leaning against the now open doorway of our room, shoulders gently shaking and eyes shining with hurt. "Sammy…" I breathe out in an anguished whisper. Dad's staring remorsefully, the burn and sting of his words very fresh in the air around us. Its damn near palpable.

I see it then, as if in slow motion, as my little brother's knees begin to buckle, and am at once rushing forward to try and catch him in time.

_TBC…_

**Johnny, Johnny, Johnny…you just never learn, do you? I really love doing Dean's POV! :D But poor Sammy…I keep picturing his season one, trade mark puppy dog look. Boy do I miss it lol Review? *grin* hugs!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Final chapter! AHHH! I've had such a great time with this! :D thank you, you awesome reviewers, you guys are truly amazing! This one's for you (and season one Sammy) ;) I hope it meets your expectations! Happy reading!**

**-Punkin**

I arrive just in time for Sam to fall forward against me, my arms sliding underneath his arm pits to gently lower him towards the ground, the sudden heavy load bringing me down with him. "Sam! Sammy? Hey, talk to me, buddy…"

Sam groans, gasping in pain. God, this has to be hell on his ribs. His forehead presses into my neck, fingers weakly curling into my shirt and jacket. I can smell the motel shampoo in his hair, the soft strands tickling the tip of my nose and reminding me of happier times. Of simpler times.

"Damn it, Sam, you should have stayed in bed." The words are meant to be stern, angry, they really are. But instead they tumble from my mouth in an unmistakable mix of desperate concern and fervent worry.

I'm trying to keep both of us upright, Sam's weight leaning against my chest, and I can only pray that he doesn't pass out. His breathing is ragged, hitching with the torture merely drawing in a proper lungful of air inflicts upon him. It presses all the wrong buttons in all the right ways and by now I'm dangerously close to the edge. I feel a hand on my shoulder, Dad at once by our side and kneeling to assist me with _my _little brother.

The animal in me rears its giant head, roaring. Pulling Sammy farther into me, I let out a feral snarl, "Don't you touch him."

Dad looks at me like I've grown a second head, a brief flicker of exasperation there and gone again. "Dean, let me help…"

"I got him!" I snap, cutting him off. "Don't you think you've done enough?" I'm beginning to wish I'd punched the man when I had the chance, maybe then I would have fixed the messed up circuit between our father's head and mouth. God knows we all have a bad habit of not thinking before speaking, but this just takes the Winchester cake.

Finally, Dad seems to get it. I glare daggers as he steps back, watching us with an unfamiliar helplessness emanating from his dark round eyes, his expression remaining one of slight bewilderment. I swallow, but refuse to entertain the instincts within screaming to throw the man a bone, screaming to allow him to try and be what he'd already failed to be on so many levels tonight.

"Sorry, Dean….heard… heard yelling. Thought maybe…maybe you were in trouble." Sam gets out, voice quietly rasping and rough.

I shush him, shooting one last warning glance in Dad's direction before carefully beginning to maneuver Sammy into a semi standing position, the poor kid flailing as he attempts to help but barely being able to stand on his own two legs. "Easy now, sasquatch. Let's just take it slow, all right?"

Supporting nearly his entire weight, the five feet to the bed are like a marathon. Every gasp he tries to cover up, every hiss of pain, it stirs and boils in my stomach. It claws in my mind and leaves a bad taste in my mouth because there isn't anything I can do to alleviate the agony, there isn't anything I can shoot or kill or maim to make this better. Not one thing. And what else is a big brother good for? Most certainly not stopping these kinds of things before they happen, no matter how vigilant or careful or over protective I may be.

Failure, failure, failure…

I can practically feel Dad's eyes following our every move, boring into us as I assist Sam onto the bed and carefully lower him against the pillows, making sure he doesn't try to move too fast or heck, take too deep a breath. Sam's blinking up at me, gaze a bit unfocused and hazy. I wonder if he knows he's still gripping my jacket.

Probably not.

When we were little, he'd wrap himself around my leg sometimes, finding it absolutely hilarious to sit on my foot as I tried to walk. I did though, and Sammy went right along for the ride, laughing every step of the way. It's like he's trying to do that now, trying to hold on to me so that if I were to go somewhere, he could go too. The wistful memory prevents me from comprehending Dad's brazen approach.

"Sammy…" He begins, stepping to my side, near Sam's face, deep voice uncharacteristically soft, yet persistently oppressive.

"Don't even start, Dad," I growl, attempting to wedge my body between him and the bed, "I think we get the picture."

Dad's jaw clenches, the vein in his forehead bulging faintly. I can tell he's making a valiant effort at keeping his temper in check. "If you'd just let me explain…"

"Why? So you have another chance to say something stupid? No freaking way!" I hiss and am in the midst of pushing aggressively at his shoulder when Sam's calm voice stops us once more.

"Dean, stop. Please."

I pause, Dad's eyes narrow to look beyond me. Damn it, how can I ever resist that kind of plea? He _knows _it too.

Spinning to face my little brother, I'm dismayed to find him struggling to shove himself up onto his elbows. Trying to push him back down I say, "Sammy, let me handle this, ok, kiddo? You just rest."

"Let him talk, Dean." The words may be soft and vulnerable, perhaps even with a trace of fear, but Sam has his head tilted in that stubborn way, the line appearing between the hollows of his hazel orbs. He's going to get what he wants. For a moment, I want to stamp my foot, because no way am I not going to drag Dad to the door and drop kick him into the street.

Sam and I noiselessly square off for an instant before I finally growl in frustration, the damn 'dewy eyes' far too great to conquer. "Fine!" My hands are thrown into the air and I am forced to immediately back away from the both of them so I can safely mutter under my breath things that would put a sailor to shame.

Dad lowers himself slowly so he can be even with Sam's face, his hands fluttering as if he is unsure with what to do with them. I draw closer, the need to protect Sammy all consuming; by now I don't trust our father not to worsen things. Not to hurt the kid more than he already has.

"I…I'm so sorry, Sam." I tense as Dad begins speaking. Sam's not looking at him though, his shoulders shrinking back into the bed. How does he manage to look so small? "I was wrong to take off like that…to leave you."

Sam flinches then, and it's all I can do not to intervene. But I'm shocked when a cursory glance at the older man's face reveals the usual stern eyes to be shining. It has to be a trick of the light…surely. Dad at last seems to find a place for his drifting hands, resting them on Sam's bent arm and squeezing gently. Astonishingly, Sam doesn't pull away. I'm only half sure that he wants to.

"Seeing you _move_ that gun…" he pauses, eyes wandering as if the memory is flashing in front of him, "seeing the pain it caused you. It…it scared the hell out of me."

My molars dig into the flesh of the inside of my cheek as I observe Sam's eye brows furrowing minutely, face turning in our father's direction. "Why did you-why didn't you say anything? What about just now…outside?" Sammy's voice splinters and cracks, certainly against his will. I take a significant step forward and my knee brushes against the edge of his leg, reminding him that I'm still right here and that I'm not going anywhere.

"What I said outside was stupid, I didn't mean it, son. At all…I was just angry, scared." Dad shakes his head, somewhat sadly, "I've always tried to protect you boys. Tried to keep you safe. But this…" Sam's downright looking now, almost meeting Dad's gaze. It must be encouraging because the words come easier. "These visions, these powers, whatever the cause or whatever the reason you have them, I can't protect you from it, Sammy. That's why I ran. It…I just needed time, I couldn't _think_. Just kept seeing…seeing your mother, that night in the fire."

That night is strictly, unequivocally taboo. The fact that he's brought it up _at all_ is enough to tighten my throat and burn my eyes. The man is being serious. He doesn't screw around when talking about…Mom.

Sam's adam's apple bobs and he fixes Dad with the most heart breaking expression I've ever witnessed. He's so hopeful and every fiber of my being is screaming for our father not to let the kid down. "You mean you don't think I'm a…" Sam chokes on whatever word he's intending to say, although we get a pretty good idea. What comes next makes my legs utterly weak, "…you don't hate me?"

Dad's jaw drops a bit, shock flitting athwart his haggard face. This is it; he better make this right, he better fix this or so help me I will never forgive him. His right hand grips Sam's shoulder, meeting my little brother's hesitant gaze. "Samuel Winchester, I could _never_ hate you. I know we've had our differences in the past, and I know what I did tonight was…wrong, but you're my son, Sammy, and I love you. _Both _of you." Dad's eyes dart in my direction. Not far considering I've virtually been on top of them throughout the entire exchange.

A heat tingles in my chest, my skin flooded with the residual warmth that at once spreads to encompass my whole body.

Sammy's subsequent, endearing smile lights up the whole damn room and makes me want to gather him up in my arms so I can keep it on his face forever. The kid's got too much on his shoulders. His eye lids flutter, tired orbs no longer bogged down by so many conflicting emotions. "I'm sorry you had to find out this way." Sam whispers, voice trailing off as sleep sinks in its determined claws. Then, he adds in a manner that could very well bring a Wendigo to its knees, "Love you too, Dad…"

We remain frozen, watching Sammy. There's so much innocence in him that I wish will never go away. I wish I could bottle it up and store it in a safe place, just to ensure this freaking life doesn't suck it right out of my little brother. I need it…I need him, bleeding heart and all.

It's the only thing that keeps me grounded, keeps _us _grounded.

"I'm not going to apologize." I can't help but belligerently declare, at once breaking the contented silence. I'm expecting, or better, _asking for,_ an argument, some sort of rebuke for the way I'd treated the older man. I know firsthand that you don't deliberately behave disrespectfully to an ex marine without serious consequence.

Dad doesn't even look my way at first, and when he does, he's got this strange, amused, yet sly grin on his lips.

It kind of pisses me off.

"Oh I didn't expect you to, son. You were just doing what I told you to, what you do best." He chuckles and leans back on his haunches, the denim of his jeans stretching and fading to white.

I reach down to pull the covers more snuggly over Sam, my hand pausing when it brushes over the kid's heart, finding vast reassurance and comfort in the soft thump that pounds beneath my fingertips. "What's that?"

Dad doesn't answer right away so I glance, genuinely curious and not anywhere near ready to forgive the bastard, exasperatingly in his direction. His weary, brown eyes search my own and he gives an unexpected nod of approval. "Protecting Sammy."

I can't do much more than stare back at him, caught completely off guard. I can still feel Sam's stuttering heart beat though, reverberating through me as the familiar cadence I'd marched to my entire life. That's when I suddenly am confident that as long as this remains so, than whatever is coming, whatever awaits us out there, we'll face it together.

As a family.

With these thoughts, and Sammy resting peacefully before us, I at last manage to find it within myself to smirk back at Dad, "Damn straight." Because what do you know? John Winchester is right about something.

_The End_

**Awwwww :D John, you got so schmoopy! Sorry, I couldn't resist, I'm a sucker for a happy ending ;) it was just too fun! Review? Hugs!**


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